Short stories

Summary:

Chapter Text

AN: This story was slightly inspired by a few roleplays, and also is a bit of a present for my friend Catnip. Get outta that rut now with a good story, buddy.

….And all t'was left, was angels of red....

The cold frosty air billowed over the countryside, snowflakes softly drifting with the wind. Everything in sight was white and still, except for a slowly moving grey shape. The shape was a man in a black cloak, moving harshly against the cold, unforgiving winter storm. His name was Gylas Riffin, A knight from the town of Ingford, on a quest to warn the next town about the orc army, under command of Lurtzog, moving north rapidly.

The orcs are usually not a frequent sight in the cold winter days, and Gylas knew this well. That was why he volunteered to go to the outlying towns to warn them. Alas, he did not pack enough rations to keep himself alive for much longer. He must get to the town without delay. He knew that his goal was close, and charged roughly into a cold burst of air. He felt weak. Wearing just chainmail had made him faster, yet he was still encumbered by his steel shield, bastard sword, and hunger.

The snow was freezing his boots, and it was becoming harder to move. He lurched forward, knocked back by an unknown force. Looking up, he saw what pushed him down. A large orc, with a broken fang, was looming over him. The orc's crude axe was drawn, and had many a dent from bashing against armor. Gylas swallowed hard. He had not expected any resistance, or an encounter of hostility. He stood, and the orc roared in his broken speech, insulting Gylas thoroughly.

“You stoopid hooman! Not brave war-dog! Orkul kill you good!”

As the orc was beating his chest, Gylas had drawn his sword and shield. With a roar, he retorted fiercely, in order to prove his guts.

“I am indeed a brave warrior, and more skilled than your brutish manner! I shall prove this in a duel of the mighty!”

The orc gave off a mossy smile, and started sidestepping, as Gylas did. He was familiar with the basics of a honorable duel. Gylas took the attack of opportunity, swinging his sword in an arc against the orc's weapon arm. The orc countered, knocking the striking sword away from his flesh, and slashed the second axe down onto his opponent's neatly exposed shoulder.

The red succulent blood splashed all over Gylas's face and shoulder, along with the orc's axe. He roared in total agony, as the orc shoved him back using the axe, the axe sliding out with a sickly sucking sound. Gylas was stupid to extend his shield arm out in the strike, as this was the shoulder wrecked. He could barely extend the arm upward without feeling an unbearable wave of pain, from stretching cut muscle, and grinding broken bone.

The orc attempted to take a dirty blow, and attack Gylas while incapacitated. He found that his strike was halted by a blade shoved through his wrist, making it go limp. With a roar, the orc tore himself away, almost ripping the useless hand off.

The small victory did not last long, for Gylas was still wrought with the internal war of unexplainable hunger and weakness, mixed with the desperation to survive. The orc created a deep gash, almost hitting the bone in his thigh. As the sticky liquid tainted the pure white snow, the innocence of the journey is also lost. Blood turns to ice slowly, as Gylas failed to make another devastating blow to the orc, while the orc smashed his axe into his chest. As the orc went into a frenzy, Gylas dropped his shield, and used what little strength he had left, to keep standing, and preserve his own life.

Thinking back, as the orc assaulted his weak state, Gylas could only hate himself for not being sensible enough to pack sufficient rations and for not wearing some leather under his chainmail. The journey might have been slower, yes, but he would have been able to take this orc, no problem! He would have even been able, to do what he said he would do so long ago.....

As Gylas began to lose himself in loathing and pity, he failed to block a vital blow to the knees that sent him flying back onto his cloak and ass. The orc smashed his axe into Gylas's abdomen, which caused him to scream, then choke and gurgle on his own blood, the wound having hit and ruptured his stomach. He attempted to crawl away, but had lost too much blood to even lift his arms. He knew he was finished, and could only pray his death was swift.

The orc picked up Gylas's bastard sword, in an act of humiliation, aiming for his heart. Gylas could only whisper out his last thoughts.

The deed was committed, and the orc drove the bastard sword deep through Gylas's heart, silencing his final words. He only let out a sputtering sigh, as his life left him for good. There he lay, innocent Gylas Riffin, in a growing pool of his own blood, an orc roaring over him in victory. The orc wandered off, leaving Gylas impaled to the ground with his own sword, as a humiliation to all who find him.

Days passed, and the snowstorms became less frequent. A woman could be seen, running down the same valley Gylas was crossing. She appeared to be looking for something, and stopped when she saw speckles of blood.

“Oh god. No. No.. It can't be....” With a dash over, her fears were confirmed.

Gylas, many days dead by now, stared up at her, frozen stiff from the cold, and death. He'd lost some hair by now, and was just starting to rot. It was a sorry sight for her, as she wept next to him, whispering down into his chest about promises long made, and now unkept. Once finished, she wiped her tears, the same coat of arms on her own set of armor, and gently picked the now light Gylas up, to carry him home. Only this time, to carry him into a home of earth and stone.

All that was left behind in the snow, was a snowangel. A snowangel, of red.